Yggdrasil
by Laora
Summary: Bilbo Baggins dies peacefully on the ship to Valinor, and when he wakes, he is a young hobbit living in Bag End. Thorin Oakenshield, on the other hand, drowns in his own blood on a gruesome battlefield; his screams as he wakes in Ered Luin will haunt his sister and nephews for years to come. -— (Fixing their broken world isn't going to be as easy as they think.)
1. Heaven : Redux

_Expect a blend of book- and movie-verse for this one; I plotted this out in its entirety before the third movie came out, so whatever shreds of story still cling to canon points, don't expect to see anything from BOFA._

_Thank you so much for clicking, guys—you've signed yourself up for quite a wild ride here (which I am more than excited to share with you :D), so I hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

><p><em>.<em>

_._

_._

_._

The last thing he remembers is desperation, terror, and pure, unadulterated _rage_ before everything is gone, and he is alone in the vast emptiness of space.

He'd give anything for a second chance, a chance to get out and a chance to set things _right._

_._

_._

_._

_._

Bilbo Baggins is old, now, and he knows he does not have much time left.

The others know this, too, but no one says it aloud. Gandalf has taken to sitting with him and Frodo, talking of times long past, of dwarves and mountains and dragons and immeasurable amounts of gold.

Bilbo thinks he might have lived these tales, once upon a time. His mind isn't what it used to be, though, and he finds it easier to simply listen to the old wizard's tales, feel the gentle rocking of the ship as they sail for the Undying Lands, and ignore the nagging longing at the back of his mind.

He doesn't know how long they sit there, how long Gandalf talks in that calming voice of his… But eventually, the words are beyond Bilbo's grasp, and he feels so horribly tired. Frodo shifts slightly, but Bilbo pays him no mind as he feels his head fall gently onto his nephew's shoulder. He sleeps, for the moment, for he is weary…and he dreams in startling clarity of dwarven kings and shining stones and long-mourned regret.

And then he dreams of nothing, and his soul slips away to the skies.

_._

_._

_._

_._

Thorin Oakenshield dies in blood and rage and what some might call glory.

(All he can think is that he has failed each and every person he has ever come to love.)

He was awake—delirious, but awake—when his nephews fell: Fíli, first, to Azog's mace, and Kíli not long after, to goblin spears—and in the tents, he does not have to ask Balin of their fates. Fíli had fallen mere feet from Thorin, his crushed chest and neck a bloody mess, his eyes vacant and staring—dead before his body hit the ground.

(Thorin will never forget those eyes, nor will he forget Kíli's anguished screams as he realized his brother was gone.)

His younger nephew, though talented in the art of war _(far too young)_, left himself open to Azog's guard—his vision surely blurred by inconsolable tears, standing before Thorin's prone form and fighting like a berserker, protecting the only family he had left.

Thorin wanted to be sick when he heard the blades pierce his nephew's body, and then he was looking into Kíli's eyes: dark, usually so full of life, but now pained and fading far too quickly. Kíli tried to say something (maybe _I'm sorry_, _I love you_, but just as likely _I hate you_, _is this what you wanted?_), but Thorin could not understand the choked whispers making their way through the boy's tortured throat.

His youngest nephew died then, tear tracks staining his bloody face, his last words falling on deaf ears.

Thorin will never forgive himself for this, even if he is accepted into Mahal's kingdom and pardoned by his family for his sins. He deserves every spearhead embedded in his gut, every slash of poisoned sword and scimitar and arrow and everything, _everything,_ is his fault. He is in the camps, now, and Bilbo Baggins—_Bilbo Baggins_, the hobbit he dragged along, treated horribly and nearly killed time and time again—is _crying; _he is kneeling beside Thorin's mutilated body with its rasping lungs and its sluggish heart, and he is mourning the passing of one he should never have deigned to call a friend.

Thorin does not—_cannot—_understand why he has been granted this much, why he has been allowed to die with his friends at his side…not when so many others _(Fíli and Kíli_, and he cannot hold back his tears any longer) died so, so alone. Óin and Gandalf and the elves have said there is nothing they can do, that it is only a matter of time before he succumbs to the wounds he has sustained. Thorin does not mind—cares only that he is hurting those left behind—because he knows he deserves nothing better and they deserve so much more.

He only wishes so many had not died before he saw how wrong he had been.

Bilbo Baggins is crying at his deathbed, is grasping Thorin's hand so tightly that his bloodied fingers are going numb, and Thorin knows there is nothing he can do to alleviate his friend's pain. He looks past the hobbit for a moment, sees Balin and Dwalin standing with stiff backs and tears in their eyes (bloodied and injured but _alive_), and knows he cannot possibly atone for anything he has done.

It's absolutely inexcusable and beyond words, beyond reparation, even if he had the time for such things.

But he does his best, and Bilbo cries, and his cousins can do absolutely nothing as their friend—their _king_—finally closes his eyes and breathes no more.

(He only wishes he had been stronger.)

(Maybe, then, things would have been different.)

But it's too late for any of that now.

.

.

.

.

* * *

><p><em>.<em>

_._

_._

_._

_Yggdrasil: the great ash tree that binds together heaven, earth, and hell_

_._

_._

_._

_._

* * *

><p><strong>— BOOK ONE : HEAVEN —<strong>

**.**

**Redux**

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

.

He doesn't know how long the nothingness lasts. After all, even time is meaningless in such a Hell.

But then there is a chance, and he seizes it—an anchor, a miracle, _a way out._ He latches on and refuses to let go.

And finally—_finally,_ after who knows how long—he is free, in the land he knows so well…but it is different than he last remembers. Different, but _better_, because the unthinkable—the impossible—has not come to pass. This is a land not yet ravaged by the greatest war of the age…and while it is strange, he does not think on it for long.

He has a second chance, and this time, he won't make the same mistakes.

.

.

.

.

Bilbo Baggins realizes something is wrong the moment he wakes up.

He remembers the warmth of Frodo's shoulder as he drifted off to sleep. He remembers Gandalf's solemn voice, speaking a language he did not understand—or perhaps the words were simply beyond his reach. He remembers a cool breeze on his face as they sailed for the Undying Lands.

He remembers death.

There had been nothing, and then there had been—_something,_ a great unknown, and a great pull, and then…

This.

He is in a bed, under a blanket, in a cozy house when he should not be alive at all. The smell is familiar—_too_ familiar, though he hasn't been here in nearly two decades—and he knows where he is even before he opens his eyes, even before he admits it to himself.

Bag End is just as he remembers it—and yet it is ever so slightly different. There are fewer scrolls stacked upon his desk; there is no fire burning cheerfully in the hearth; there are fewer knick-knacks piled in the corners, a chest missing from the opposite wall—

This, he realizes with growing horror, is the Bag End of his younger years, the Bag End he inhabited before he ever traveled to Erebor.

He's standing and into the hallway before he even realizes he has moved, his nightclothes _(when did he put these on he doesn't remember)_ swishing behind him in the too-silent house as he makes no effort at all to be quiet.

_Frodo. Where is Frodo?_

He remembers dozing on his nephew's shoulder, remembers—vaguely, for his mind had been sluggish and near-empty in those last hours—hearing the boy's tales of all his adventures across the land, remembers listening with pride as he learned that the boy he viewed as a son saved the world.

But it hadn't been as simple as that, had it? Because Frodo's eyes had been listless and empty, when he finally returned to Rivendell—the others, Glóin's son and Frodo's friends and the elf and the man and Gandalf the _White_—had been different than they once were, and Bilbo, even with his failing mind, had noticed it.

He was never told the whole story of the war—Elrond seemed disinclined to speak of it, and his sons were often gone to offer their aid in the south…but he gleaned enough from hushed conversations, from what Frodo was willing to tell him afterward and what Gandalf told him so long ago of the Ring…

It had been Sauron's, it had destroyed countless lives, and it had been entirely Bilbo's fault.

He tears through Bag End, searching desperately for his nephew—because what is his afterlife without the boy who meant the world to him for so long? But the house is silent as the grave, and he is the only one in it; and it is only when he pauses for breath in the washroom and looks up at his reflection, does he realize just how wrong this situation has become.

He is young again—young as he has not been in nearly a century—and his stomach is round like it was before he traversed half of Middle Earth—and he realizes, now, that he should not have been able to run through these halls as he has, that his mind is sharper and more focused than it's been in years—

He thinks he is lucky to be in the bathroom, because he is very quickly and very violently sick, throwing up a dinner he doesn't remember eating.

He is fifty again—he is young and untested and _everything is wrong_—

When he is finished he flushes the toilet shakily, washing his face with trembling hands and forcing himself not to look into the mirror. This is not happening. This _cannot be happening._ But it is—either that, or this is an incredibly vivid dream—and his mind is just reeling through the implications of all of this when there is a sharp knock at the door.

Rather numbly, Bilbo makes his way toward the front entrance, not bothering to try and make himself presentable—and when he opens it, his neighbor Hobson Gamgee greets him: "G'morning, Mister Bilbo! I—" But he cuts himself off, properly looking Bilbo up and down, and he's clearly worried as he says instead, "Are you well? You look as if you've seen a ghost!"

He's as good as, because Hobson died when Bilbo was barely into his nineties.

"Mister Bilbo?" Hobson's voice is rising in concern as Bilbo sways on his feet, his gaze transfixed on his old friend's face, but he doesn't respond. After all, what is he supposed to do, when he's somehow traveled eighty years into the past and is greeted by someone who he has thought dead for almost half a century?

He does the only thing a respectable hobbit could be expected to do in his situation: he collapses to the ground in a dead faint.

.

He wakes a small time later in his favorite armchair, where Hobson has evidently dragged him from the front hall—and Bilbo isn't sure that he's grateful for his friend's presence when his head still swims at the sight of him. "You gave me quite a fright!" Hobson says, jumping slightly and nearly dropping his plate of scones when he sees Bilbo moving sluggishly. "You shouldn't do such things, knocking your head like that—I'm sure it doesn't do much good for your mind—"

"This is going to be a very odd question, Hobson," Bilbo cuts him off, peering up at his friend, "but could you tell me the date and year?"

Hobson looks alarmed at such a question, but answers promptly—"It's the second of Astron, in the year 1341—do you think I should call a healer? If you're not sure what year it is—beggin' your pardon, Mister Bilbo, but that's not a thing you should be forgetting!"

"No, no, I remember now," Bilbo says quickly, his mind reeling from this new information—it's only a few weeks before Gandalf approached him about the quest to Erebor…a few weeks before he met some of the best friends he has ever had in his life. _(Lives,_ he realizes.) "I must have been still half-asleep, but I remember now—there's no need to worry."

"As long as you're certain," Hobson says, though he looks utterly unconvinced as he continues, "I took out some scones for you to eat, seeing as it's near time for second breakfast—do you want me to stay and make sure you're all right, or—?"

"No, you can go home," Bilbo says quickly, accepting the scones gratefully, for truly, he is very hungry. "I promise I'll come get you if there's anything wrong."

"All right," he says, though he still looks very concerned as he heads for the front door. Bilbo follows after him a few seconds later, ensuring that he closes the door behind him and isn't dawdling on his porch—and when that's done, he lets out a shaky breath and slides down a wall until he is seated on the ground.

_He's in the past._ The Ring has not yet been found, Erebor has not yet been reclaimed—and Bilbo Baggins is still a perfectly respectable hobbit. The Bilbo his neighbors and relatives know would never _dream_ of running off into the Wild with thirteen strangers and a wizard he only remembers vaguely from his childhood…

But he is not the Bilbo his family knows…not anymore. He's lived for more than a century, has seen the wide world beyond his doorstep, and knows there is so much more to his life than doilies and dishes and the comforts of his sheltered life in the Shire.

Thousands—_millions_—of lives are in his hands. The world has restored itself, but still he remembers how things once happened—and, he realizes now, he has the perfect opportunity to fix it.

_Destroy the Ring. Defeat Sauron before he ever regains power._

_Help the dwarves take back Erebor._

_Save Thorin and Fíli and Kíli._

He moved on, eventually, from their deaths. Learned to control the grief, the longing and the relentless _what-ifs_… He could ignore them, after so many years. Of course he could. Hobbits are resilient, after all, and the deaths of three dwarves he knew for little more than half a year shouldn't…

But those three dwarves—and all the rest—were the closest thing to family, to _home,_ he ever had, after his parents died, before Frodo entered his life. And even then, when he was old and grey, he still yearned for the adventure and peril and _camaraderie_ he felt with that group where he was a decided outsider; they learned to accept him like nobody besides Frodo has in decades; he can't help but yearn for decades long past, where…

Even after eighty years, even in this terrifyingly young body, thoughts of his friends—living and dead (though he supposes, with another shuddering breath, that _here, now, they're all still alive)_—they still send pain arching through his heart, stuttering his lungs and burning his throat as he forces himself not to cry out from the pain. They were all so—so vibrant, and _alive,_ and watching Thorin's life seep from his eyes, dripping from his lips and staining the makeshift cot—seeing Fíli and Kíli's mangled bodies as they lay, side by side, together even in death—

(Too young too soon how _dare _he not do more to save those precious lives—)

Fíli and Kíli were the soul of the Company, but Thorin was its heart—beating relentlessly toward their common, _impossible_ goal. He was abrasive and bitter and angry, yes, but also passionate and all-too-deserving of the throne he ultimately died for…

But he realizes, like a rush of cold water, that something even more enormous is at stake here—for what good would it do to save their lives, if they will only die decades later at the hands of the darkest force Middle Earth has seen in millennia? _He _was the catalyst; _he _was the creature who recovered the Ring and hoarded it for decades, unknowing of its power. But now he is not so blind. To spare Frodo the torture that damned thing wrought, to end the War of the Ring before it even begins..._  
><em>

This, he knows, is his true purpose, and he will do anything to ensure he does not fail this second time.

He's clutching the scone so tightly between his shaking fingers that it is disintegrating, crumbs falling to the rug beneath him, but he pays it no mind as he stands up. He won't waste this opportunity; he won't let so many people die for his own weakness and greed. He will save Thorin and his kin—retrieve the Ring and destroy it before it can leech off of his life and his happiness and his sanity—he will make things right when he has so horribly disturbed them in the past.

That past is gone, now, and he will ensure it does not happen again.

.

.

.

.

Thorin is screaming.

He's not sure how or why (because he clearly—_clearly_—remembers dying, remembers the way he struggled to draw in breath through his damaged ribcage and around the spearheads in his gut that shifted every time he moved—) but he is screaming, and he is so suddenly overcome with all-consuming, irrational horror that he cannot help but continue.

Pain and gut-splitting agony and _death_ and nothing and then _something_ and then he was being pulled pulled pulled

He was dead and now he is not—or else this is a very strange afterlife, because even if his wounds seem to be healed he doesn't know where he is, doesn't know what is happening because _he was dead_, there is no question of that, but—

There is the sound of a door slamming open, and he shoots up (he's lying down, _why is he lying down where is his sword), _his eyes flying open and trying to take everything in even as his head spins and he is filled with the sudden need to be sick—

He only just has time to lean over the bed (_why is he on a bed_) before he is vomiting all over the stone floor.

"Thorin! _Thorin!"_

Voices are overlapping, slamming into his mind, yelling questions and demanding answers but he can't understand any of it, can't pick apart their words to discern their meaning, and it is only when he has composed himself to sit up again, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, that he realizes who is speaking to him—and he is very nearly sick again.

Fíli, the hammer he lost in Mirkwood clutched tight in his grasp—and Kíli, his hunting knife held defensively in front of him as his gaze sweeps the room, checking for threats, trying to find out why his uncle is screaming—_they're_ _dead,_ _he watched them die_ but here they are, whole and hale, their faces open and terrified as they rush toward him as soon as they're sure he won't stab them out of reflex. Fíli's weapon falls to the ground as he reaches Thorin first, grasping him by the shoulders and shaking him harshly, trying to bring him back to reality, but it only sends his mind reeling further.

Fíli's eyes were dead and wide and terrified and _everything is his fault_—

"_Thorin! Look at me!"_ Fíli roars, his face inches from his uncle's, and something snaps, then, and Thorin finds himself letting out a sob into the terror thick in the room. Fíli nearly reels back with shock before he recovers, shaking Thorin again before calling over his shoulder, through the open doorway, "Ma! Ma, there's something wrong with Thorin—"

Dís' footsteps thunder through Thorin's ears even as he does not know why his sister would be here—why she would _possibly _be here when this must be the afterlife, for he is dead and Fíli is dead and Kíli is dead and _Mahal_ he's going to be sick again—

He only just has enough time to shove Fíli out of the way before he empties his stomach onto the ground, and he wonders at its contents, because for these last weeks they have only had small rations of stale bread to eat, but the remnants of a hearty dinner he cannot recall are clear on the ground before him—

"Thorin!" That is undeniably his sister's voice, and he forces himself to look up in time to see her hurry through the doorway, a large kitchen knife clutched tight in her grasp and her face bloodless. "Thorin, what's wrong—"

He can only shake his head slowly, for he feels suddenly dizzy, but he does not wish to worry them further—even though he has no idea why they are worried for him in the first place. His nephews—they _died _for him, died for his idiocy and his rage and his greed, and they have every reason to hate him for it—but there is nothing but unmasked worry and fear on their faces as Fíli hovers at his side, and Kíli stands only a few feet away, his knuckles white around the knife still held tight in his grasp.

_Why are they here, with him, when they deserve so much more?_ He does not understand…

"_Thorin!"_ This time, it's accompanied with a harsh slap across his face, and he jolts back to the present, blinking up at his sister and doing his best to understand. She is not—she _can't_ be dead, because there hasn't been an orc attack on Ered Luin in _decades, _so there is no way she could have—

"Should I go find Óin?" Kíli's voice is tense, and Thorin jerks as he realizes that this means Óin must have died in the battle as well—but _no,_ he didn't, because he clearly remembers his cousin trying to save his mangled insides, clearly remembers his face falling in grief and despair as he realized that there was nothing to be done—

This makes absolutely no sense, even as Dís nods sharply at her younger son and he makes toward the door. But Thorin hears strangled words making their way out of his throat—"I'm fine. Stay. Please."

Dís sends him a sharp look, and Kíli hesitates before complying, moving instead to stand beside his brother, near enough for Thorin to touch them. He restrains himself from doing exactly that, for fear of shattering the illusion—surely, he will touch them only to find their skin icy cold, slick with blood, and he will look into their eyes to see only emptiness and betrayal and _death_—

"Are you going to tell us what happened?" Dís' voice isn't quite harsh, but it's demanding as she stands beside her sons with her arms folded across her chest, staring down at him intensely. "I have not heard you scream like that in _years_, brother."

He can't tell them—he _can't_—because the truth will shatter whatever wonderful illusion his mind has conjured up, with his family brought together one last time before he and his nephews are escorted to Mahal's halls—

_Gods,_ Dís will be left all alone, and she's already lost too much in this lifetime—

He can't tell them, but he can't possibly lie…not when his own deceit and madness brought about their deaths in the first place—so he takes a shuddering breath, forcing himself to look Fíli and Kíli in the eyes as he says in a choked whisper, "I watched you die."

Dís inhales sharply, and Fíli's face contorts for a moment before he steps forward, reaching for Thorin's arm even as he fights the urge to flinch away. "We're fine, I swear it," Fíli says, smiling crookedly at his uncle. "We haven't even left Ered Luin yet—I know you doubt our abilities sometimes, but we're not so careless as to get ourselves killed in our own home. It was just a nightmare—we're perfectly all right."

Kíli steps forward as well, grasping Thorin's other shoulder, and he feels such love overwhelm him in this moment—his nephews' hands are warm and _alive_ and he is close enough to hear their breathing, feel the air they exhale as it hits his skin, and he is so full of heart-wrenching _relief_ that he stands abruptly, pulling the both of them into a bone-crushing hug with another sob. He feels both of them stiffen at the sudden contact, hears Dís make an astonished noise beside him, but he can't bring himself to care at the moment.

He's never been one for excessive physical contact, but he thinks he should be allowed this much, when somehow, he has been gifted such a wonderful chance to see his family. They are where they should be (_a life in the Blue Mountains that is worth more than all the gold in Erebor),_ and this is clearly his chance to put his regrets to rest before he moves on.

Maybe this is his penance; maybe this is Mahal telling him that, however unworthy he is of it, he is forgiven of his transgressions. Whatever the reason, he will accept this moment at face value (_his boys are here,_ and even if he did not show it enough in life, he loves them more than words can say), and with the knowledge that they do not hate him, he will pass willingly into his Maker's halls.

Eventually, he releases Fíli and Kíli, who look pleased—though not a bit surprised—by his show of affection. "Are you sure you're all right?" Kíli says, a small grin on his face as he lightly punches Thorin's arm. "Remember, Balin and Dwalin are coming over in a bit to discuss our journey to the Shire—you'll need to look at least reasonably presentable for them."

Thorin blinks at him for a moment, his mind blanking in confusion. Why would they be traveling to the Shire? Surely—as much as Bilbo has come to mean so much to them during the quest, and as many regrets as Thorin has regarding their hobbit—if they are truly passing into the afterlife, there would be no need…?

But the three of them are starting to look at him oddly, and he knows now is not the time to ask strange questions—so he only nods, smiling slightly, and moves toward his wardrobe to find a presentable outfit for the meeting.

He hears Fíli and Kíli hesitate before leaving his room, the elder easily lifting his hammer from where he left it on the ground—but Dís remains, and as Thorin turns, her eyes are curiously soft as she smiles at him.

"You know I trust you with their lives," she says, jerking her head slightly toward the door. "I would not have allowed them to join you if I did not. I know you would die before allowing any harm to come to them on this journey, no matter what haunts your dreams…you need not worry, brother."

Thorin can only stare at her for a moment—she's speaking so oddly, as if it's all in the future—but she does not seem to find this strange; she only smiles slightly, saying, "Breakfast should be ready soon, if you're hungry—and I'll draw some water for you, but you'll be the one to clean up that mess." She gestures toward the puddle of vomit next to his bed as she steps toward the door.

"Thank you, Dís," Thorin says suddenly, and he means it; her smile grows wider, but she only nods before leaving the room.

Thorin dresses in silence, trying to wrap his mind around it all—his room is exactly as he remembers it, his sword and axe and various knives held up on pegs on the wall; his bed (perpetually unmade, and more than once, that has gotten him in trouble with his sister) taking up much of the small room; a large desk in one corner, stacks of parchment covering its surface. On a whim, he makes his way toward it, because something is still not quite right about all of this. He doesn't_ feel_ dead—though he feels occasional twinges of phantom pain where the mortal wounds were dealt, the pain is nothing compared to the full agony he felt in the shadow of the mountain.

He truly was injured, then, but somehow he is alive again…

And when he glances properly over the papers scattered across his desk, picking one up, his mind stutters to a halt.

The one in his hand is clearly dated _1 April, T.A. 2941—_more than half a year before he died. A week before he and the others left for the Shire, three weeks before they truly began their journey…

The pieces are falling together, now, and his fingers clench involuntarily around the parchment, terror and hope in equal parts flooding his mind. He _remembers_ this paperwork, because it tallies the tentative expenses for the first leg of their journey, and Glóin had given him a proper earful when it wasn't prepared exactly how he wanted it—

This strange dream—reawakening—isn't a final farewell to his friends and family, he realizes—_this is a second chance._

The parchment crumples under the force of his grip, but he pays it no mind as he throws it back onto his desk and sinks shakily onto his bed, hands in his hair. He hasn't died, or at least he hasn't died _here, yet;_ his nephews have not thrown away their own lives for his; they have not yet left Ered Luin on this ill-fated quest…

Why has he been granted such a miracle? He, of all people, deserves no such thing, not after what he has done to each and every person he has ever considered to be important to him. Or perhaps that is why he's been chosen—he needs to atone for all his wrongs, needs to fix what he has broken so that his world is right again. He needs to reclaim Erebor, but keep his sanity…and ensure that his nephews do not fall as they did the time before.

His own life does not matter. He will willingly forfeit it if it means keeping his family safe.

And he will do anything—_anything—_to ensure that he does not make the same mistakes again.


	2. Heaven : Iktsuarpok

**— BOOK ONE : HEAVEN —**

**.**

**Iktsuarpok**  
><em>(Inuit: the feeling of anticipation that causes you to keep looking outside for an awaited guest)<em>

* * *

><p>Time passes in a flurry of half-remembered events and a strange sense of foreboding.<p>

Bilbo knows he should be worried about what sort of higher power has caused this. After all, hobbits do not have much to do with any of the Valar—or, at least, not like the dwarves do with Aulë—and he has no idea who might have sent him back in time. But he decides not to think about it—after all, he has been given this second chance, and he is not one to question such a great gift, no matter its source.

He speaks to Holman Greenhand and young Hamfast daily when they come to tend to the garden, travels to the market (and if he buys more nonperishables than necessary for one hobbit, none of the merchants are stupid enough to ask), interacts with all the neighbors and cousins and friends who see him as the slightly eccentric but perfectly respectable Bilbo Baggins, master of Bag End and one of the wealthiest hobbits in the Shire.

He feels like he's going mad for the anticipation growing in his heart.

He sees off young Drogo Baggins (who he never spoke to much, the first time before the quest—and he regrets it) as he decides to visit Brandy Hall in the east. It's against his parents' wishes, of course, but by now the lad is thirty-three and can do exactly as he pleases.

(Bilbo sees the blush spreading across his cheeks and the way he ducks his head—so reminiscent of Frodo's mannerisms, though the boy scarcely knew his father—and knows Primula Brandybuck lives with her extended family in the Hall. He does not mention it, though, because the poor boy is getting enough heckling from his immediate family about why he's going, and he clearly has no interest in explaining.)

Nevertheless, he pulls him aside and presses a hunting knife into the boy's grasp, asking him to be careful…just in case. Drogo is clearly nonplussed, and rightly so; but seems to accept this as his strange cousin's antics, and only pulls Bilbo into a hug, promising to write often during his three-month stay.

Bilbo only smiles—he has a long wait ahead of him, for Primula is but twenty-one—and wishes him the best of luck.

(That knife had been his mother's—he dug it out of storage months after his return from Erebor, and it has been a prized possession ever since. He knows it is in good hands, though, and does not regret for a second giving it to his cousin.)

Mid-April comes and goes, and Bilbo knows that if he is to join the dwarves on their quest, he should be prepared ahead of time. He stockpiles nonperishables in his second pantry and plans to distribute them among their packs for their journey, because as good as rabbit stew is in moderation, he rather grew to hate it after months and months of nearly nothing else. His primary pantry, in the week before he knows they will arrive, fills quickly with meats and pastries and spices and everything the dwarves could possibly want to cook during their short stay in his home.

He counts and recounts his blankets and realizes that some of his friends must have gone cold that night without their bedrolls, for though Bag End is large, he has no more than eight spares; and so he goes out to the markets again, commissions six more on a rush order—one extra-large, for hobbit blankets are surely nowhere near long enough for Gandalf—and ignores the blank stares of the seamstresses as he hands over a hefty bag of gold.

Tongues, inevitably, begin to wag as the days go on, but Bilbo has long since learned to ignore them. Hobson finds more and more excuses to drop by, an incredulous, worried frown growing deeper each day. Once, he catches Bilbo returning from the market with a slingshot, a replacement hunting knife, and a sturdy oilskin, and apparently this marks the end of his patience.

"You're sure you're feeling all right, Mister Bilbo?" he calls after him as Bilbo bustles up the walk, humming a quiet tune under his breath.

"I'm wonderful—thank you for asking," Bilbo replies cheerily enough, already cataloguing what else he will need to pack. It's the nineteenth of Astron, only three days before Gandalf is supposed to approach him if he remembers correctly, and he has so much yet to do! He'll have to see if he can find the coat his mother bought for his father in their younger years, when she dragged him out adventuring. It was made of leather—sturdy and warm—and last time around, Bilbo's velvet dinner jacket had been anything but.

"It's just—you're ordering such peculiar things," Hobson continues valiantly, hurrying up the front stoop and preventing Bilbo from closing the door. "Beggin' your pardon, but why on earth would you need such a knife?"

"I'm expecting some visitors in a few days," he replies easily, hanging the oilskin on a hook near the door and quickly inspecting the knife again. The dwarves will scoff at its craftsmanship, of course, but perhaps having such a weapon—no matter how small or poorly made—will soften Thorin's first impression of him a bit. "I might be leaving the Shire to travel east for a long while."

"What—!" Hobson chokes, hurrying into Bag End as Bilbo makes his way to his study. "_Leaving the Shire?_ What's possessed you to—"

"I can promise you that I know what I'm doing," Bilbo says, setting the slingshot and knife down on his desk and turning to reassure Hobson with a smile. "It's not anything terribly dangerous…just a few old friends who might need my help."

"Well, I never—" Hobson seems to be at a loss for words, his mouth gaping open as he takes in all the things spread out on Bilbo's desk. "Who's to tend to your parents' house, then? If you're to be running off—"

"I was hoping you and Hamfast would take care of that for me," Bilbo replies readily, shrugging. Perhaps, if he takes more precautions this time around, he won't have to buy back his own furniture if he returns to the Shire. "Make sure my less savory relatives keep their hands to themselves, if you catch my meaning."

Hobson makes a small noise in the back of his throat, his eyes impossibly wide as he stares at Bilbo, clearly wondering if he has lost his mind. "You're sure this is a good idea? You know what they say, Mister Bilbo—'never venture east, lest you—'"

"Yes, I know the stories," he says, restraining himself from rolling his eyes—after all, he recited it to the dwarves often enough that he's honestly surprised Dwalin never wrung his neck. "I can assure you, it will be perfectly safe. I'll even let you know when I'm leaving, if you'd like. There's absolutely nothing for you to worry about."

Hobson stares him down levelly for several moments before sighing and turning away, toward the front entrance. "Well, I suppose if there's no convincing you otherwise, I've nothing else to say."

Bilbo thinks he should reply to this, somehow—reassure his friend that he's not deserting him, that he will be home in due time—but Hobson has closed the front door behind him, leaving Bilbo alone in the silence of his parents' house.

And it's just as well, he thinks, because such words would be lies. After all, as he's been thinking about this quest more and more—as much as he can remember of the original journey, and all that he must do differently this time—he's slowly realizing that more likely than not, Bilbo Baggins will never be returning to the Shire. Mordor, after all, is his ultimate destination—and even with an unsuspecting Sauron, a scattered orc army and Erebor's relative proximity to Mount Doom, he doubts very highly that he will make it out of this alive.

(And even if he pretends that he doesn't mind this—doesn't mind giving up his life if it means saving the world from such darkness as he saw last time—he would be lying if he didn't say he is so very scared of the task ahead of him.)

But he must do it—he is the _only_ one who can do it—and so he plans and he packs and he remembers—remembers Thorin's scorching gaze as he spoke of his lost homeland (and forgets the madness raging in his eyes as he threatened to throw Bilbo from the battlements), remembers Fíli and Kíli's optimism and loyalty and courage (and forgets the sight of their mangled bodies as they were sealed in stone forever)…remembers Frodo, his young cousin who gave up his happiness and his sanity to save the world…

And does his best to forget that all of this is his fault in the first place.

_._

_._

_._

_._

Thorin leaves his room as soon as he is able, though he still gets strange looks from Dís and his nephews for taking such a long time getting ready. His breakfast is cooling on the table and he sits down rather numbly, doing his best to ignore his gurgling stomach as he takes in the kitchen he was sure he would never see again.

Dís is puttering around the sink, cleaning the dishes even as she barks to her sons that _their help would be greatly appreciated._ Fíli and Kíli, for their part, are gleefully ignoring her—the elder is sharpening one of his many knives, and the younger is fletching some extra arrows to add to his quiver.

He finds himself staring at them perhaps longer than he should, but he can't help it…not when he's just now noticing the stark difference from the nephews that he remembers seeing in Erebor. Of course, he knows, the journey would have aged them—after such hardships they faced, it's a wonder they were able to keep up their good spirits, after all. But Kíli's cheeks are fuller than they have been since they nearly starved in Mirkwood, and Fíli's hair is bright as it has not been in months; he finds himself blinking in astonishment at the differences, and wonders how he could not have noticed such things before.

It was the gold sickness…of course it was. His memory of having any sense left in his mind starts to fade from the moment they left Laketown, and everything from once they entered the mountain is nothing more than an insane mess of wrath and greed. But he remembers—he remembers the stench of dragon enraging him beyond reason, remembers the _need_ he felt in his heart to find the Arkenstone, remembers—

Mahal help him, he remembers nearly throwing Bilbo from the battlements, remembers the gleeful rage coursing through his veins as he watched the hobbit struggle in his grip, as he listened to Bard and Gandalf scream for his release…

He feels suddenly sick at the revelation, and any thought of eating breakfast is pushed out of his mind as his stomach threatens to upheave all the nothing left within.

"Are you all right, Thorin?" Fíli's voice is a mercy, breaking through his horrified haze and causing his head to snap up. Both his nephews are looking at him in concern, and Dís has stopped washing dishes to listen. Thorin knows he can't tell them the truth—how would he explain such a thing, after all?—but lying to them is absolutely out of the question anymore.

"Just…" he starts valiantly, but trails off, trying and failing to hold eye contact with Fíli before dropping his gaze to the table. (He won't ever forget his nephews' faces as they were in death—warped in agony and terror and grief and _he won't let that happen again, he won't he won't he **won't**—)_

"We're absolutely fine," Kíli says after several seconds of silence, twisting to try and catch Thorin's gaze. "It was just a nightmare, I swear it—"

"I know that," he lies, and he's horrified at the catch in his voice; he swallows before continuing, "but it doesn't make it any easier to forget."

Neither of his nephews seem to know quite how to answer that, and after a few seconds, they return to their weapons, the kitchen strangely quiet without their usual chatter. "Thorin," Dís says after a few moments. "Remember, Glóin wanted that paperwork by today, and Bombur wants to know how much food he needs to pack—and Balin and Dwalin should be here any moment, so you should at least try to eat something before then."

He hums noncommittally; she's right, after all, but with his churning insides, he's not so sure he'll be able to stomach it without making even more of a mess. But he's grateful for the reminder—after all, he doesn't remember the details, anymore, of what happened today the last time around…

And Mahal, isn't that a strange thought! He alone remembers what happened the past six months of his life; nobody else remembers the trolls, or the goblin caves, or being locked in Thranduil's dungeons for nigh on a month—

And—he realizes with a jolt—none of his kin remember Bilbo Baggins. He was so sure, half a year past, that the hobbit would be nothing more than a liability, the wizard's afterthought, their _lucky number _when Gandalf was too flighty to formally join them himself. But after the battle on the cliff—after the barrels and the gods-forsaken _dragon_—

After returning to grieve at Thorin's deathbed when he had no obligation to be on the battlefield at all, the hobbit has more than gained Thorin's hard-won respect.

But Bilbo won't even know they're coming—Bilbo won't know any of them, will be terrified all over again (and, Thorin realizes with a silent grump, rightly so, to have thirteen large, heavily armed strangers enter your house so readily…he'll have to have a word with the Company about greeting their host), will—hopefully—have to make the same decision, to drop his entire life to travel with these strangers, to desert his home to help them claim their own.

It's awful when he thinks of it like that, but what else are they to do? Bilbo proved himself invaluable throughout the entire journey; indeed, they likely would not have made it out of the Trollshaws intact without his quick thinking. They asked of him an enormous service, offering the only payment they knew—mountains of gold. But then, Thorin wouldn't be surprised if Bilbo had left it all behind when he journeyed home; what use do hobbits have for gold and gems, after all?

Food and cheer and song, indeed. If only he had not been so blind.

But Fíli and Kíli are standing up to clear their plates, tucking their weapons away at last, and grinning cheerfully at their mother as she levels a mild glare at them for avoiding their chores. "We're thinking we want to go sparring for a bit," Kíli announces to the room at large. "And then we'll check for ravens for you, Uncle, as you're like to be busy. Dáin's should be coming any day now, right?"

"Aye," Thorin agrees, for he remembers this much—he could not have expected Dáin to traverse the entirety of Middle Earth for a small council (already past, and he's grateful for it—he doesn't want to deal with the other lords again, treating him as lesser because he does not rule his forefathers' mountain). A raven's message is more than enough for the two of them, for though they are close kin, they both have their duties to attend to.

After all, he knows his cousin's answer and knows its sting in his heart, though Dáin came to him at the last for a mad, hopeless defense against Esgaroth and Mirkwood.

_Mahal, he cannot let that happen again._

"It's much appreciated," he nods to his nephews, and Kíli stands a bit straighter, his smile broadening; he and Fíli quickly disappear down the hall to collect their weapons and head toward the training fields.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Dis asks, mere seconds after they've called their farewells and closed the front door behind them. He's still sitting at the table, his breakfast barely touched, and she sits next to him now, turning her chair to face him with a stern look. "That must have been some nightmare, brother. Are you sure we shouldn't call Óin—?"

"I swear to you, I am fine," he says, and forces himself to meet her gaze, for it would be stranger yet if he did not. And when he looks at her, her concerned gaze, her fists balled loosely on the table and her brow furrowed deep, he is _so close _to letting loose, to telling her everything. She is the one he most owes an apology to, beyond her sons and beyond the rest of their kin and beyond even _Bilbo_—for she is the one he left all alone in the world, without a single member of her family left.

She would have persevered, he is sure. She has always been strong—stronger than him, for sure—but it would have been awful. Impossible.

He can't do it.

She doesn't look like she believes him one bit, but sees something in his face that stays her demands; she only sighs, reaching out to grasp his hand—"What are you so afraid of? Yesterday, you were all too arrogant about this quest, but there's something different in your eyes, now."

He doesn't know how to respond to this around the lump in his throat (Fíli's chest was crushed despite the glorious armor he wore, destroying his heart and choking his lungs all too quickly; The spears rending Kíli's body stuck from him at grotesque angles, and the memory makes him want to be sick all over again). He only tightens his grip on his sister's hand and drops his gaze; she waits patiently for an answer, unwilling to let it go, and eventually he says, "I don't want to watch them die again. I _can't._ It was…"

He trails off, and to his horror feels his eyes burning; he blinks quickly, looking away in shame and anger, but Dis does not let it go. Her free hand comes up and pulls his face toward her again, and her expression is compassionate in a way he only rarely sees now on her aging, grief-stoic face.

"I trust you with their lives," she says, her grip tightening, "and they trust you with far more than that. They would follow you to the ends of the earth, and I know you would do anything to protect them. You are their king, and they are your sister's sons. If there is a stronger bond between living creatures on this earth, I do not know of it."

He swallows, opening his mouth to speak (she's wrong she's so wrong, none of them should ever trust him but how to tell her he can't he _can't_); the only thing that comes out is a pathetic, desperate noise from high in his throat. Dis' face crumples, and she leans in close to embrace him, her fingers disappearing into his hair to rub at his back soothingly. "You have nothing to fear," she says quietly. "I trust in you and in this quest. It has been too long since we have had a proper home, and you are right, I think, to reclaim it."

"We face a _dragon,_" he responds, his voice cracking as he tentatively reaches to embrace her in return. "You cannot—I could be leading every one of them to their deaths, and for what? Our grandfather's gold?"

"For our _home_," she says immediately, her grip tightening. "And Tharkûn is coming as well—if anyone is capable of slaying a dragon, it is that impossibly irritating wizard. I think you have nothing to fear, brother."

Thorin remembers Bard the Dragonslayer—grim-faced and grief-stricken, struggling to provide for his children and his people—remembers turning him away so callously at the gates of the mountain—and cannot find it in him to reply.

They sit like that for a long few moments, though Thorin's thoughts spiral in dizzying patterns that would not make sense even if he tried to decipher them. But eventually, there is the sound of the front door opening again, and he reluctantly leans back, away from his sister, wiping a traitorous wetness from his eyes. He needs to compose himself. He can't let anyone else see him like this—Dis is bad enough, but—

"Thorin?"

It's Balin's surprised voice that greets him, and when he looks up, the younger brother is not far behind; both look at him with raised eyebrows and worried eyes, and, of course, for good reason. "Is everything all right, lad?"

"Aye," he says forcefully, and offers no further explanation; Dwalin, especially, shoots him a sharp look as the two of them move to sit at the table, but Thorin isn't willing to answer any more questions right now. They speak of the logistics of the quest at length; Thorin lets most of it wash over him, for he's experienced all of this before: knows what path they will take, how long each leg will take, how long the food will last…

(Bilbo ate more than any of them had expected—at first, Thorin saw this as greed and selfishness, but once he heard the hobbit's stomach growl loudly after a full meal, he realized that hobbits simply need more food. He accommodated for it—because even if he thought Bilbo useless, he was not in the habit of being cruel to creatures who had done nothing wrong.)

He has no way of telling Balin and Dwalin this, though…not without revealing what he knows, which he thinks he is unwilling to do. Dwalin would support him through the fires of hell without question (already _has_); but Balin would not be happy with vague descriptions, would want details of the quest, of what they should avoid, of…of the end.

(Madness and his own death are one thing. Dead nephews are another thing entirely, especially when they would have almost certainly lived had he not been dying himself_. It's entirely his fault.)_

So he keeps his silence, only suggests that, to be safe, they should err on the side of caution when it comes to food. Both of them—and Dis, likely more sensible than any of them—agree that there'd be no harm in doing so, and that's the end of that.

Can he keep lying like this? Telling falsehoods to the people he trusts most in the world: his sister and nephews and cousins and those not even his kin, who still are putting everything on the line for his foolish dreams? They deserve—they deserve _everything,_ so much more than this…

But nothing good could come of it, he's sure. He has the entire journey clear in his mind…but none of the others do, and they would second guess, they would wonder…they would want to change things when, perhaps, they would better be left alone.

(Fíli and Kíli come first.)

He passes through the conversation, engaging when necessary but his mind spinning through ways to protect his nephews. His first thought, of course, is to leave them behind entirely—but he discards it nearly as quickly, because they would never allow it, and honestly, he's not entirely comfortable with the idea, either. Of course, if it were the only way, he would demand it without question, but…

As Dis said, they are his sister's sons, and Durin's heirs beside. They have every right to enter the mountain the moment it is reclaimed. He would not wish it any other way.

He's still mulling this over—with no real solution, except to forcefully bar them from the battle—as the conversation ends, and he knows he is distracted as Balin and Dwalin stand up, the elder tucking a roll of parchment back into his robes. "Thorin." Dwalin's voice is a low rumble, as always, and Thorin can see something strange in his eyes as he looks him up and down. "A word, if you don't mind."

It's not a request, but the two of them have long understood each other; he nods and heads toward the door to his bedroom, hesitating for a moment before simply turning and leaning against the stone wall. Dwalin closes the door heavily behind him, and turns to level him with a dark glare.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," he says on reflex, but his friend doesn't believe it for an instant; Dwalin steps forward, crowding into his personal space and glaring at him, nearly eye to eye.

"We're sitting in there discussing _your _quest, plans to keep _your _people safe on this journey across half of Middle Earth, and you're sitting there daydreaming like a dwarfling in his lessons! Something's wrong, and if we're to follow you on this journey in less than a fortnight, I expect to be told the truth."

His words—they're truth, all of them, and Thorin knows it even as he struggles to reply. He can't—he wants to tell him, suddenly, because who else would understand him better than Dwalin?—but his own mind is still whirling with memories (the awful battle that happened scarce hours ago, bleeding out on a filthy cot because he demanded his soldiers be given the clean ones, _dying_ as his cousins looked on with blood on their faces and tears in their eyes—)

He's barely keeping up with the world he's suddenly been dropped into, barely holding himself together through the grief and self-hatred still fresh in his mind, so how is he supposed to explain this even to Dwalin?

Then, suddenly, he knows.

"I want you to promise me something," he says, and this is the most desperate request he's ever made, the most serious and the one he's sure Dwalin will refuse in an instant.

"When have I not?" Dwalin snorts, but there's something else in his eyes, now, that looks a bit like worry. "Out with it, then."

"Promise me," Thorin says, "that if I fall to Thrór's madness, you will kill me before it causes any more senseless death."

Silence.

"Dwalin," Thorin says, working to keep his voice level. "You wanted to know why I'm preoccupied—I am terrified of becoming my grandfather. You _must _promise me."

He's silent for several moments longer, and Thorin starts to wonder whether Dwalin might punch him here and now. But he only sighs heavily, his eyes growing dark as he asks, "What's brought this on?"

"I—I had a dream last night," he begins, and it's a testament to the gravity of the situation that his friend doesn't scoff. "An incredibly vivid dream. I went mad, in Erebor. And in my madness…" he chokes, looking down and away, "I caused Fíli's and Kíli's deaths."

The silence is longer this time, and Thorin finally musters the courage to look back up to Dwalin's eyes. They're darker still, and his brows furrow deep as he crosses his arms across his chest. "I swear that I will stop you from falling to madness," he says at length, his mouth forming a thin line. "I won't let it come to that, Thorin, I promise you."

"But if it does?" he presses—it's not good enough. After all, didn't they argue, in the throne room, and didn't he cast his friend's words aside? Didn't Dwalin try to reason with him, and was it not futile?

His cousin lets out a heavy breath through his nose, but he says, nearly through his teeth in his reluctance, "I will do what must be done."

"Thank you," Thorin says, feeling himself nearly sagging with relief. And without much thinking (because he hates to ask this of his closest friend, but who else could do it? Who else _would? _Who else would understand the horror in his darkest thoughts of becoming exactly what he swore to avoid?), he reaches for Dwalin's shoulder, pulling him close and pressing his forehead to his own. Dwalin does not seem surprised; he only exhales heavily again, closing his eyes and reaching up to grip Thorin's shoulder as well.

"You are stronger than your forefathers," he murmurs, pressing against Thorin more firmly for a moment before pulling away. "Your dreams are only that. You shouldn't worry, Thorin-King."

He feels his throat clench as Dwalin's hand falls, but he knows he cannot be weak now. As Dwalin said, he has a dozen dwarves—nay, _thousands_ of dwarves—relying on him to lead them safely to the mountain. His own fears, no matter how well-founded they may be, are nothing when compared to the needs of his people.

_Thorin-King._ This is who he is, and who he must be—he feels himself stand straighter, doing his best to push the memories and fears to the back of his mind for the moment. After all, why else would he have been given this second chance, if not to make right by his family and his people? He grips Dwalin's shoulder tightly for a moment before letting his hand fall as well, meeting his cousin's eyes with renewed determination, no matter the phantoms that mock him from the back of his mind. He will overcome them. He _has _to. He owes it to his sister and his nephews and everyone—_everyone_—else to be the strong dwarf his forefathers never were.

But even as he and Dwalin go back to the kitchen, to Dis' silent worry and Balin's piercing gaze, the silence is filled with the memory of Kíli's screams, and his vision is blocked by Fíli's blank, dead eyes.


End file.
